


Always Like This

by ObsidianJade



Category: Bleach
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-13
Updated: 2011-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-19 08:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianJade/pseuds/ObsidianJade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They didn't love each other. But on nights like this, it didn't matter. Ulquiorra/Grimmjow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Like This

**Author's Note:**

> A sort-of sister-fic to the darker _Price of Leadership_ , this is one of only two stories I wrote centering around the Grim/Ulqui dynamic. (I can't really say 'pairing' because PoL is about as far from romantic as you can get.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. Kubo is a god and I am merely playing in his world.

They didn't love each other. They didn't even like each other, really. He thought Ulquiorra was a jerk and Ulquiorra thought he was an idiot, and that was when they were both being polite.

It didn't matter, though, on the nights when Grimmjow came back to his room clenching his teeth against his fury because Aizen had humiliated him yet again, or the nights when Ulquiorra's eyes started to look more like wounds in his soul than windows.

They weren't stupid enough to think Aizen didn't know. Las Noches was his world, his playground; there was nothing his toys did that he wasn't aware of. But he had not seen fit to stop them - if anything, it was his actions that drove them together, because it was when he abused them the most that they sought one another out.

It was the worst of days under his rule that turned their nights into this, Grimmjow on his back in his own bed, Ulquiorra's breath hot in his ear and his black nails digging into Grimmjow's shoulders, his arms, his hips.

It was always like this, Ulquiorra taking, the way he never _took_ with Aizen, never could, because he was the perfect little sycophant, Aizen's puppet. And Ulquiorra would whisper as he moved, thrusting into the hard, twisting body below him, _"Trash, you are worthless, beneath my notice,"_ an unceasing, breathless litany of insult that Grimmjow ignored, uncaring, as he writhed beneath the Fourth.

And it was always Grimmjow beneath him, willing, surrendering in the way he never did for Aizen, simply because it was a relief, for once, not to have to fight, to simply submit and let another lead, another dominate. And he surrendered willingly to Ulquiorra because he knew it meant nothing, that Ulquiorra simply _didn't give a damn_ , and wasn't fucking him just to screw with his head or break his body, he was just fucking him because he wanted to, and it was so simple and straightforward that it was a relief.

And when they came, it was always with Grimmjow roaring his release, his claws tearing ribbons down Ulquiorra's back that healed before they could even bleed, bending his body nearly in half so that he could reach the hollow hole nestled at the base of Ulquiorra's throat with his mouth, sinking his fangs into the edge of that void and hearing the breathless gasp of Ulquiorra's peak.

Always, he ignored the fractured, near-soundless whisper that rolled from Ulquiorra's tongue at the moment that he came. It should have been _'You are trash,'_ but somehow, it always managed to come out _'you are mine.'_

They would lie together, afterwards, not touching, not speaking, until their breathing slowed and the sweat cooled on their bodies. Eventually, Ulquiorra would roll over, slipping off the bed, and begin to gather his clothes. Grimmjow would turn and watch him, not because he cared but because he appreciated the flowing movement of Ulquiorra's body. The latter would dress, silent, and pause by the door, feeling for the reiatsu of anyone lingering in the hallways late at night.

When the hallways were empty - they always were - he would open the door and slip out. The whisper of 'good night, Grimmjow,' always floated back through the door on a wisp of shadow.

And Grimmjow would roll over, ignoring the sheets sticking to his skin, and mutter his response - 'good night, Ulquiorra' - before closing his eyes and dropping into sleep in his cold and empty bed.

In the morning, he would rise again, wash the evidence of the previous night from his skin, pull on a clean uniform and continue as though nothing had happened the previous night.

It might be days, or weeks, before one or both of them needed the release again, or it could be again that very night. In the end, it really didn't matter; Ulquiorra would appear, and it would happen again, the same as always.

It shouldn't have mattered. They came together because it didn't, because the world beyond this room was too cruel to tolerate and their master was a madman.

It shouldn't have mattered. Neither of them would ever admit that it did.


End file.
